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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28738203">By Candlelight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/WormRot/pseuds/WormRot'>WormRot</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff, M/M, Poetry, References to Oscar Wilde, books are cool guys, cuddles (-:, if the Boys can't be happy in canon i will MAKE them happy in fanfic, no angst i can't do sadness rn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:15:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,491</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28738203</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/WormRot/pseuds/WormRot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Curt Mega and Owen Carvour are the world's best spies by day, and the world's softest lovers by night. Both agents share poetry they've written for each other one night, fluff ensues.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>By Candlelight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“He grew more and more enamored of his own beauty, more and more interested in the corruption of his own soul. He would examine with minute care, and sometimes with a monstrous and terrible delight, the hideous lines that seared the wrinkling forehead or crawled around the heavy, sensual mouth, wondering sometimes which were the more horrible, the signs of sin or the signs of age.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What does that even mean, Owe?” Curt asked, looking upwards, his brows knit slightly. Owen sighed, setting the book down on the coffee table. He and Curt had taken to nights like these when they weren’t on missions: Owen reading some sort of classic book to Curt while his boyfriend rested his head on his lap. They had already gone through </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Great Gatsby</span>
  </em>
  <span>, which Curt had thoroughly enjoyed, and were now almost at the end of </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Picture of Dorian Gray</span>
  </em>
  <span>, one of Owen’s personal favorites. Curt had objected at first, complaining that something so old would be difficult to understand, but after Owen had explained that it was only 35 years older than Gatsby, and once he realized that he could get some free cuddling out of the whole ordeal, he obliged. The two lovers often spent their off time like this. Together, lounging across the leather sofa in Owen’s apartment, candlelight casting flickering shadows across their faces, the faintest scent of sandalwood and vanilla wafting cozily through the air, creating an almost oneiric atmosphere within the little space. And to Curt, this was just as much home as his mother’s safehouse was, maybe even more so. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The divide between Dorian’s youthful self and the image of the decaying portrait are only growing, which is causing a sort of dissonance between his perfect appearance and tainted soul,” Owen explained.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I understood… four of the words you just said? So Dorian’s like, scared or something? Why? He knows he’s not going to get old, so why is he scared?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well– Curt, it’s–“ Owen sighed, “I’m too tired for this, I don’t know.” Curt’s face immediately lit up with a mischievous grin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>The </span>
  </em>
  <span>Owen Carvour doesn’t know? Well that’s a shocker, ladies and gentlemen! Owen doesn’t know something for once, how wild is that! Can I get you on tape saying that again?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Owen pushed Curt off the couch, rolling his eyes with a laugh. “Sod off, Mega. If you keep this up, you can sleep on the couch.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Curt got back up and promptly lay down across his lap again. “Can we do something else? Don’t get me wrong, I really like Dorian Gray so far, it’s just–“ he sighed, “I’m too tired to think about big words right now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, of course, love,” Owen said, stroking Curt’s hair. He couldn’t even fake staying mad at Curt for long, no matter how hard he tried. “What do you suggest we do then?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm,” Curt said softly. He looked up at Owen, “Have you ever written anything?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Owen chuckled, “None of it’s any good. A couple of poems, some prose, nothing too noteworthy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, come on. You’ve read like, so many books, I’m sure you’re a great writer.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I assure you, I’m not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then let me be the judge of that!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s just go to bed, love, it’s getting late.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But Owen,” Curt whined, flashing his boyfriend those big puppy dog eyes that had managed to win Owen’s heart, “I’m not even tired. Can you please read me something of yours?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Please</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I’ll read you a haiku I wrote for you after.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine,”  Owen sighed with a faint smile. The thought of Curt writing about him was so heartwarming, so pure and lovely. He knew Curt had a creative side, but it certainly wasn’t often that it broke through his bravado. He tried to remember something he'd written, and his mind immediately went to a poem he’d written not long ago when he and Curt had been separated for a few months, each of the men on different missions on practically opposite ends of the globe. It had certainly been a tough time for Owen, and he had channeled those negative feelings into his writing. “Alright, er, don’t laugh. I actually wrote this one for you a couple months ago. Er, it doesn’t have a working title yet so.. I suppose I’ll just call it ‘Sonnet for Curt’ or something of the like until I can–“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quit stalling and just read it, Owe,” Curt interrupted, offering him a comforting smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, alright,” Owen said. He cleared his throat before reciting it. “Never did I ever think </span>
</p><p>
  <span>such beauty could exist on earth</span>
</p><p>
  <span>it can’t be captured with pen and ink</span>
</p><p>
  <span>but fills me with such joyous mirth</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>you’re a painting of a blooming rose</span>
</p><p>
  <span>every stroke from a force divine</span>
</p><p>
  <span>gold as sun and dark as crows</span>
</p><p>
  <span>it is an honor to call you mine</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>though I have not prestige or fame</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I have not cleverness or wit</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I have no money to my name</span>
</p><p>
  <span>of all earthly things I am unfit. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>and though I sport just pen and quill</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m glad you love and choose me still.” Owen paused for a moment, instantly feeling embarrassed. Sharing his own poetry wasn’t something he had done before. It felt too personal, too intimate. He supposed a tiny part of him was afraid of someone rejecting the words that he had poured his very heart and soul into, that by criticizing his art, he himself was being criticized. And there was the matter of his perfectionistic nature. If it wasn’t perfect, Owen didn’t want anyone else to see it. He couldn’t let anyone know that he was human too, that he was flawed and made mistakes. For that would tarnish his reputation, and Owen certainly didn’t want anyone to think less of him because of a couple of rhyming sentences. So, it was better just to keep this sort of thing to himself. If he never opened up, rejection wasn’t even an option. “I- er, it’s supposed to be a sonnet- er, Shakespearean sonnet, though I didn’t quite get the iambic pentameter right and-” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Owen,” Curt said. He was tearing up from the look of it. Owen was taken aback for a moment, wondering if he had done something wrong to provoke this reaction. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he said, avoiding Curt’s gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Owen, what are you talking about? Don’t apologize, that was…” Curt paused, sniffling a bit. “That was by far the best thing anyone’s ever done for me. Owe, that was just </span>
  <em>
    <span>beautiful</span>
  </em>
  <span> and I- I can’t even begin to tell you how much that means to me.” He looked down at his hands, “Now I feel bad because mine isn’t any good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Curt, don’t say that. I’m sure it’s lovely.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You won’t be saying that after I’m done,” Curt said, cracking a smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be so sure, love.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, um, here goes. He’s sexy and hot</span>
</p><p>
  <span>he’s everything I wanted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>my Owen Carvour. That’s it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Owen began to laugh. Not a mocking or degrading laugh, but a genuine laugh that rang out with pure adoration. “Curt, that was just lovely. Thank you so much, that made my entire night.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?” Curt definitely seemed surprised to hear this, his eyes lighting up as his boyfriend spoke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, really,” Owen said with a wide grin, peppering kisses up and down Curt’s face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop, stop!” Curt laughed, pushing Owen away as he kissed the spots where he was ticklish. “You know I’m sensitive there, you prick!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Precisely,” Owen said, and that seemed to settle the matter for both of them. Curt pulled his boyfriend close, engulfing him in a tight hug and burying his face in the crook of Owen’s neck. He mumbled something against Owen’s skin, but it was incomprehensible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What was that, love?” Owen asked, running his hands across the small of Curt’s back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I said,” the other man lifted his head briefly, “I love you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you too, Curt.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The world seemed to melt away at Curt’s touch, the soft glow of the candlelight lulling them both into a dreamlike state. Owen imagined a future with Curt, in some far off castle complete with velvet curtains, frigid stone floors, ornate gold trim on all the furniture, sparkling in the light of the many sconces burning brightly on the walls. Rows and rows of books would fill the halls, leather bound or colorful linen, that lovely scent of worn pages and black cherries filling the crisp air. It was a lovely thought, but even lovelier was the idea of sharing a home with Curt. Of course, Owen knew this fantasy would remain just that: a fantasy. Such plans could never come to fruition, especially because of their particular occupations. As he lay with Curt’s head resting on his chest, his boyfriend’s arms wrapped around him, and the poetry circling around in his mind like a carousel, Owen felt completely and perfectly at peace. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thanks for reading!! please like &amp; comment if you can because validation from strangers on the internet fuels me</p></blockquote></div></div>
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